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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224566">You Don't Have To Wait 'Til Then</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/evokingmemories/pseuds/evokingmemories'>evokingmemories</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: s13e05 Advanced Thanatology, Season/Series 13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:07:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,958</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224566</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/evokingmemories/pseuds/evokingmemories</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thinks that these moments are the worst, because he knows that they’re thinking the exact same thing, can see his own wants reflected in Cas’ eyes. It’s like a little game that they play, complete with unspoken rules like <i>don’t look for too long</i> and <i>never do it when Sam’s around</i> and, most importantly, <i>never, ever talk about it.</i></p><p>Dean has always been very good at following that last rule. </p><p>And then Lucifer puts an angel blade in Castiel’s back. The world outside the cabin erupts in violent silver light — <i>no, no, God, please no, anyone but him, no</i> — and the invisible game board snaps right in half.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>287</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You Don't Have To Wait 'Til Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi!! this is my first spn fic so it's probably really bad so uh. i apologize in advance if this makes you cringe. </p><p>i was reading back through this and realized how sparse on dialogue it is lmao, and i guess that's cause the whole fic kind of rests on the idea that dean and cas have known they are in love with each other for like many years and don't act on it for numerous reasons, mostly out of fear that it would ruin a friendship which is far too precious to both of them for them to risk it, AKA my personal read of their relationship. hence why there's so little dialogue; they really don't need to put it into words. also i am VERY bad at writing dramatic love confessions so i suppose there is that too. </p><p>anyways i had a ton of fun writing this and i hope you enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tell me, who's to say after all is done</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And you're finally gone, you won't be back again</em>
  <br/>
  <em>You can find a way to change today</em>
  <br/>
  <em>You don't have to wait 'til then</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>If it weren’t so awful, so completely fucking <em> terrifying,</em> it might be funny, Dean thinks — the way it hits him in the gut, hard, after nine years of <em> no don’t think about it </em> and <em> you don’t fucking deserve it </em> and, most of all, <em> it’s too dangerous, too dangerous, </em>too dangerous. </p><p>And it’s not a realization — at least, not the one you’d expect. Dean realized what it all meant years and years ago, realized it in a house with walls tinted orange with flickering heavenly fire and the heavy scent of smoke, realized it when that sick feeling of betrayal couldn’t keep him from turning around, from meeting Cas’ eyes and — </p><p>Dean cuts off that line of thought. Looks down at the table where he sits. Picks at the carving of his initials, traces a finger over the <em> W </em> first, and then the <em> D. </em>Feels something a lot like shame curl in his gut. </p><p>No — he had his <em> realization </em> a very long time ago. He suspects Cas had his a while back, too. When he became human, probably; he still remembers the way Cas had looked at him when Dean went to visit him in Rexford, still remembers seeing something unfamiliar — something <em> dangerous </em>— in the blue of his eyes. Something that had made Dean feel too warm and tense and absolutely fucking terrified. </p><p>Something shifted that day, Dean thinks. He still catches Cas looking at him like that, sometimes, still notices the angel’s intense gaze on him when he thinks Dean is preoccupied. Occasionally — <em> only </em>occasionally — Dean will look up, will purposely catch him in the act. Hold his stare. </p><p>Most of the time, Cas looks away. Blushes a little. But sometimes — <em> only </em> sometimes — he doesn’t, and Dean and Castiel look and look and <em> look </em> at each other and the world around them goes silent and tense and Dean stops breathing until one of them (almost always Dean) breaks. </p><p>Dean thinks that these moments are the worst, because he knows that they’re thinking the exact same thing, can see his own wants reflected in Cas’ eyes. It’s like a little game that they play, complete with unspoken rules like <em> don’t look for too long </em> and <em> never do it when Sam’s around </em> and, most importantly, <em> never, ever talk about it.  </em></p><p>Dean has always been very good at following that last rule. </p><p>And then Lucifer puts an angel blade in Castiel’s back. The world outside the cabin erupts in violent silver light — <em> no, no, God, please no, anyone but him, </em>no — and the invisible game board snaps right in half. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They get Cas back, eventually, and he and Dean and Sam and even Jack — they’re together, like a proper family. There are no words for the elation that Dean feels at that notion, at the pure <em> rightness </em>of it all. They spend their evenings in the bunker eating and shooting the shit and drinking beer and it’s fine. It’s good. </p><p>And it’s not enough. </p><p>Which is funny, really, because it’s been enough for so damn long. Nine fucking years, to be exact. Dean should be used to it by now, should be settled and happy with what he’s got, cause what he’s got is fucking <em> good.  </em></p><p>But there’s this moment, one night, about two weeks after they get Cas back. They’re all gathered in Dean’s man cave, watching the third Star Wars movie, much to Jack’s delight. Sam sits in an armchair, while Dean and Cas sit on the long couch, Jack between the two of them. </p><p>And Dean looks away from the screen and towards Cas, only to find that the angel’s eyes are already on him, so very blue and so very soft. It’s a look of pure sweetness — the sort of sweetness that Dean has always thought himself completely undeserving of — and the almost tactile sensation of those eyes on him, combined with the rest of their family gathered around, warm and safe and happy, makes Dean’s breath catch. Makes him understand, with a sort of sinking feeling in his stomach, that Cas is trying to reassemble the game board, is trying to pick up all the pieces and carefully put them back in place. He’s reaching out a metaphorical hand, a peace offering with his eyes, saying <em> it’s okay to go back to the way we were. </em>He’s giving Dean an out. </p><p>And what Dean <em>realizes</em>, like a fucking gut punch, isn’t that he loves Castiel — but that he has to <em>tell</em> him. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>And so Dean sits at a table in the bunker and stares at his initials and pretends that he’s not out of his mind with fear. </p><p>The clock on his phone reads 12:34 AM. Jack and Sam are probably both asleep by now — although Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the kid were still up, surfing on Sam’s laptop for fun facts about Luke Skywalker even though Dean specifically <em> told </em>him to get to bed a few hours ago. Jack had given him a sheepish look in return, and Cas — Cas had looked at him with such fondness that it made Dean feel warm all over, like a fucking teen with a crush. </p><p>Dean drums his fingers on the table. Cups his chin with his other hand. Stares at the wall and tries to calm his racing thoughts. </p><p>It’s been three days since his little epiphany and now that he’s considered it — as in seriously <em> considered </em>it, not just the occasional, quickly repressed fantasies he’d entertained before Cas’ death — he’s been unable to get the notion of telling Cas out of his mind.</p><p>Fucking hell — it’s <em> all </em> he’s been able to think about. In bed, late at night, staring at the ceiling until his eyelids are heavy and yet he still can’t sleep because of the scenarios he runs through in his mind. In the shower, while making breakfast, while looking for cases, he imagines doing it, imagines going up to Cas and just fucking <em> saying </em>it. </p><p>But even the mere act of imagining it is enough to make fear claw at his insides, to make his heart race. </p><p>Because he can’t do it, can he? Christ, he just <em> can’t. </em>It’s too much, too big, too dangerous, so much so that even entertaining the notion is turning him into a pile of walking, talking nerves. He’s sleeping even less than usual, barely eating, surviving on coffee in the morning and beer in the evenings and he spends most of the time that he’s not with the others in his room, listening to music and pretending that he’s not out of his fucking mind. </p><p>But even though he can’t do it — even though the thought of saying it after years of pushing it all down makes him feel ill — he has to. He <em> has </em>to. Because he and Cas — they’ve been dancing around this for years, now, hiding under long, held stares and whispered prayers in the dark, feelings intertwined carefully into bold declarations in the eleventh hour. </p><p>And then Cas died. Cas died and Dean wanted to fucking die with him. Got his wish, even if only for a little while, not too long after. And Dean’s been trying to repress all of the shit that happened in that month of utter hell, has been trying to erase the memories of nights spent binge drinking until he passed out and listening to music loud enough to cause long-lasting hearing damage (never the mixtape, though. He hasn’t touched the thing since Cas died, even after he came back). </p><p>But one thing he hasn’t been able to erase, no matter how fucking hard he’s tried, is the thought that arose in his mind as he’d fallen to his knees beside Cas’ dead body, as he’d taken in the sight of the scorch marks left behind by angel wings long since clipped, emerging from a haze of pure shock. </p><p><em> We never got a chance,</em> he’d thought. <em> I never got to tell him.  </em></p><p>Nine years, and Dean hadn’t said a thing because, hey — they always had tomorrow, right? Sure, Dean never really intended to tell him, for all the reasons he’d <em> always </em>had for leaving all of that alone. But they had time, if Dean were to ever change his mind. </p><p>As it turned out, though, they <em> didn’t </em>have all of that imagined time, and Cas died and Dean lost his goddamn mind and — well. Now they’re here. Cas is back and Dean knows in his bones that he has to tell him, because he is not going to look a gift like this in the face and turn away from it. He may not believe in fate or destiny or any of that bullshit, but he does believe in second chances, and he’s just been handed one on a silver platter. </p><p>
  <em> I have to tell him. I have to tell him.  </em>
</p><p>Over and over and over, in his mind. Dean stares at the wall and pretends his hands aren’t shaking. </p><p>
  <em> I have to tell him. I have to tell him.  </em>
</p><p>Cas’ face pops up in his mind. Dean thinks of his sweet blue eyes and all the fucking love, all the <em> goodness </em> that lives inside them, thinks of how he looks at Jack like John never looked at Dean, thinks of the way he said <em> of course, Dean, </em>when Dean suggested that they watch a movie together just a few nights ago, thinks of how he smiles at Dean as he drinks his morning coffee, how he loves the stuff even though he doesn’t need it. </p><p>
  <em> I have to tell him. I have to tell him.  </em>
</p><p>Dean’s heart races, and he thinks of how the same hands that send angel blades through the hearts of demons and monsters touch his skin to heal his wounds and mend his bones, thinks of how Cas once pushed him up against a wall in a beautiful room and held his hand over Dean’s mouth and said <em> I choose you </em>with his eyes. </p><p>Dean can hardly breath. He checks his phone clock, and it reads 12:45 AM, and he wonders what Cas is doing right now, wonders if he’s watching Netflix on his laptop or laying in bed in that fucking trench coat, reading some book about plants even though his angel mojo probably makes it so that he already knows everything about every plant that’s ever lived. </p><p>Dean’s chest aches, and the pain is old and familiar and yet, with everything that’s happened in the past month or so, somehow <em> new. </em> He thinks that maybe he’s always known that he can’t live like this forever — thinks that maybe Cas’ death just spurred the inevitable. Thinks that maybe they’ve always been headed this way, ever since they locked eyes in that barn nine years ago and Cas said, with all the confidence of someone who put Dean’s fucking <em> soul </em> back together and none of the human tact that would tell him to not say deeply personal shit as a greeting: <em> You don’t think you deserve to be saved.  </em></p><p>Dean still doesn’t think he deserves to be saved. And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve Cas. But that voice saying <em> I have to tell him I have to tell him I have to tell him </em> will not let him rest, will not let him sleep or eat or fucking exist until he <em>says</em> it.  </p><p>Because Cas <em> died,</em> Dean <em> lost </em> him, and Dean fell to his knees next to his still-warm <em> body </em> and the first coherent thought to cross his mind was regret for having never said anything, and fuck if that isn’t telling. </p><p>Dean gets up from his chair. Immediately sits back down. Takes a deep, long breath. </p><p>Somewhere in the bunker, a clock ticks. Dean looks at his phone again. <em> 12:50 AM. </em></p><p>Cas won’t be sleeping. Dean could go to him. </p><p>It’s big. Dean knows that. It’s big and scary and it’s everything he’s ever fucking wanted and Dean doesn’t know how to play the game anymore, and so he stands, gets up from his chair and begins the walk towards Cas’ room and tries to ignore the way his heart hammers in his chest. </p><p>He tries not to think too hard about it as he walks, tries to pretend that it’s fine, that it’s okay, that he can do this. He makes it to Cas’ door far too soon and simply stands there, frozen. He swallows hard and his throat is dry and <em> fuck, </em>every instinct he has is telling him to <em> run, </em>telling him that he can’t do this because if he does and he fucks it up — because he always fucks it up in the end, doesn’t he? — then it’s game over, because this is Cas and Cas is <em> it. </em> Dean can’t lose him, ever again, not in any sense, and if Dean finally touches this, if he finally acknowledges this <em> thing </em>between them only for him to ruin it, Dean will lose him. </p><p>And then Dean thinks of that day in the cabin. The memory cuts right through him, visceral and sharp, of tearing down curtains and wrapping Cas’ dead body and the smell of smoke and Dean’s grief burning a whole right through him, all the way down to whatever the hell is left of his soul these days. And he knows with a horrible surety that he can’t walk away. Not now. </p><p>He reaches up a shaking hand — he clenches his fist tight, tells himself to calm down — and knocks on Cas’ door. </p><p>Quiet, for a very long moment. Then, the telltale sound of Cas’ ruffling trenchcoat and Dean’s heart is beating, beating, beating in his chest and the door opens and — </p><p>Cas’ eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, but the expression is quickly replaced by concern. </p><p>“Dean,” he says, voice as low and rumbling as always, yet deeply tender in a way that makes Dean feel all fucked up. “Are you alright?” </p><p>Dean is silent for quite a long moment, because now that he’s standing here, he’s realizing that showing up at Cas’ door at one in the morning is probably a bit strange and that not even bothering to rehearse anything at all may have been short-sighted. </p><p>He clears his throat. Attempts something akin to a smile. “Yeah, Cas, I’m good. Just, uh — ” He looks away from Cas’ gaze, and suddenly feels very warm and off-kilter and terrified and <em> fuck, </em>this is going to be very, very hard. “Are you, uh — busy? I mean, I just — I was hoping to talk to you about something.” </p><p>A soft smile alights Cas’ lips; despite the late hour, he doesn’t seem terribly concerned — just a bit curious, maybe. </p><p>“Of course,” he says, so very simply, and stands aside to let Dean in. </p><p>Dean quickly makes his way inside, stepping over to stand by the desk, on the opposite wall of the bed. He realizes that his hands are still shaking and shoves them into the pockets of his jeans, leaning back against the desk in an attempt to seem casual. </p><p>Dean thinks he may throw up. </p><p>Cas, on the other hand, seems almost completely relaxed. Pleased, even, as if simply talking to Dean — even at ass o’clock in the morning — is more than enough to make him feel content. He sits at the end of his bed and looks up at Dean with an utterly earnest expression. </p><p>He’s silent, and Dean realizes, not without embarrassment, that Cas is waiting for him to speak first. </p><p>Dean opens his mouth. Then shuts it. He looks down at the carpet of the floor and thinks hard about how he wants to say this. Nothing — not a sentence, not a phrase, not a single fucking <em> word </em> — comes to mind. </p><p>“Dean,” he hears, and looks up to see that Cas’ calm expression has shifted into one of worry. “Are you sure you’re alright?” </p><p>Dean is about to say something along the lines of what he’d said earlier — <em> I’m all good, man </em> or <em> Yeah, just tired </em>— but then he’s looking into Cas’ blue eyes and everything he’d been feeling earlier, before he’d made his decision, comes flooding back in an instant, and he’s overwhelmed by the aching that squeezes his chest, at the way the mere sight of Cas looking at him like this is enough to make everything he’s ever felt for him hit him all at once. </p><p>Castiel — the angel who rebelled against Heaven, for Dean. The angel who turned his back on a family he’d served for millions of years, for Dean. The angel who renounced God, his own father, <em>for Dean. </em></p><p>And Dean realizes the exact moment that Cas understands why Dean is here, sees it in the way his eyes widen slightly, in the way he sits up a bit, in the way he casts his gaze to the floor before it flits up to Dean once more. All the usual signs of the game they’ve been playing, silently, for years — only Dean is not here to move a single chess piece before fleeing the scene. Not like before. Not ever again. </p><p>He raises his chin slightly. Swallows. Castiel holds his gaze and says, very quietly — “Dean?”</p><p>It’s just his name, but the way he says it — questioningly, delicately, rolling off his tongue like the word is something precious — makes Dean’s whole body tense. Whether it’s from fear or anticipation, he’s not sure. Probably both. </p><p>“Cas,” Dean says. </p><p>A very long moment of silence, and Dean and Castiel look and look and look at each other and Dean says, quiet, a bit shaky, “I need to tell you something.”</p><p>Cas has gone completely still. Completely silent. He breaks from Dean’s gaze for a moment, plays with one of the buttons of his trench coat as he casts his eyes to the floor. Dean watches as he swallows hard before finally looking back to him.</p><p>He says, very softly, “Okay.”</p><p>Dean recognizes it as the permission it is, as a way of saying, <em> Okay, we can do this now, if you want. If you’re ready.  </em></p><p>Dean’s not ready. Fuck, he’s not even <em> close. </em> But at this point he’s realized that if he waits until he’s ready, he’ll never say it, and never saying it is not an option anymore. Not since he burned Cas’ body on the funeral pyre. Not since Cas came back to him, <em> back to Dean,</em> from a place where no angel or demon had ever returned from in the history of time itself. </p><p>“When you — when you died,” Dean begins, and almost immediately has to look away because Cas' eyes are wide and scared and full of other emotions that Dean can’t even name, and looking into them makes him feel raw and exposed. “I just...it wasn’t good, Cas. I was really messed up. I don’t know if Sam told you anything, but…” </p><p>Dean trails off. Steals a glance at Cas and tries not to shiver when their gazes catch. </p><p>Cas murmurs, “He hasn’t said anything, no. I guess I didn’t think to ask.” </p><p>Dean nods, not sure if he’s grateful that Sam didn’t tell Cas about what he did or terrified because now <em> he </em>has to. </p><p>“I did some things...” Dean continues, looking away again, pinning his eyes to the floor. “Some things that were a little — I don’t know...extreme, I guess.” He attempts a sort of casual, what-can-I-say laugh and it comes out sounding very, very fake, and Cas looks up at him with such open concern, and when Dean meets his eyes he nearly loses his next few words, has to choke them out. </p><p>“We were on a hunt and we had to find a way to talk to these ghosts and so I, uh — I…” Dean doesn’t know how to say it, how to push back the sheer humiliation, the shame that comes with the admission. Cas' gaze is questioning and a bit frightened, a bit confused, and Dean looks away, <em> away </em>. </p><p>“I took this stuff, this chemical that, uh — that stops your heart.” Dean pauses. The room is completely silent. He adds, a moment later, “So I could talk to them. The ghosts, I mean.”</p><p>As if that qualification isn’t complete bullshit. As if Cas can’t see right through him. And Dean still can’t look at him, still keeps his eyes on the floor and chews at his lip and waits for Cas to say something, to say <em> anything.  </em></p><p>“You killed yourself,” Cas says, finally. </p><p>Dean flinches. Thinks, for a second, about correcting him, about giving some bullshit answer like <em> I mean, not exactly </em> or <em> I was planning on coming back.</em> But he doesn’t, because that’s not true, and Dean is fucking tired of lying. </p><p>“Yeah,” Dean answers. One word, spoken into the utter silence of the room. He hears Cas’ sharp inhale, finally looks up to meet the angel’s eyes. </p><p>And Cas is just staring at him with this look of shock and sadness and something that feels a lot like anticipation, like he knows that they’re slowly starting to tip over the precipice they’ve been standing on for nine years. </p><p><em> "Dean,”</em>  he says, and the name sounds different than Dean’s ever heard it before, a bit breathy and low with warning, painted with sadness at Dean’s confession. </p><p>And Dean finds himself thinking that there’s no one on Earth who’s ever said his name like Cas does — with every utterance different than the one before it, spoken with its own unique meaning, for Dean and Dean alone. He finds himself thinking that he wants to hear Cas say it over and over and over again until they’ve used up whatever time they’ve got left. </p><p>Dean takes a deep, deep breath. Holds Cas’ eyes and says, voice shaking a little, “Cas, you — you and I, we…” Dean trails off, and it’s just a few fucking words, Christ, but Dean watches as Cas’ whole body goes tense, watches as he swallows hard and thinks <em> this is Cas, this is Cas, and I’m telling him, I’m finally telling him</em>, and he can’t breath, he can’t <em> breath. </em> “At least — <em> I’ve </em>always, I don’t know...about how you, uh — feel, but…” </p><p><em> Bullshit,</em> Dean thinks briefly, because he does know. He knows and Cas knows and they’ve both <em> known </em> for years, and he’s not going to pretend like they don’t, so he goes on, “Cas, I’ve never really known how to — how to <em> talk </em> about it, but I swear to God, there’s this...” He pauses, lets out a shaky exhale, looks up again to see Cas watching him with those intense blue eyes, only the tension’s turned up to 100 and he can see Cas breathing fast, in and out, can see his chest moving, and Dean’s heart is racing and he’s never felt like this before and he gets it out, finally, says, “...this <em> thing. </em>Like — we — you and I —” </p><p>“Dean,” Cas says, again, more breath than word, eyes widening a little, his mouth parting. </p><p>But Dean keeps going because he has to tell him, <em> he has to tell him,</em> and it’s too big and it’s too much and Dean feels like he’s going to pass out and he says, aware that he’s shaking, aware that he probably looks completely terrified, “Like — fuck, maybe I’m imagining it but I <em> swear </em>we — I swear we have something, don’t we?” </p><p>And the words are so much, are too overwhelming and so Dean closes his eyes against them, squeezes them shut and shakes his head a little and <em> fuck,</em> he can’t believe he just said that. </p><p>The silence that follows his words is somehow the loudest thing Dean’s ever heard; the only sounds are the quiet <em> in and out </em>of Cas’ breath and the bunker’s ever-present hum. Dean opens his eyes again but keeps them fixed on the floor, because he can’t look up, he can’t meet Cas' stare, not now, not when he’s cutting himself open and letting his fucking blood spill on the floor. </p><p>So he doesn’t look up, but he continues, hoarse, “Cause I have spent the last few years trying to — I don’t know. Trying to act like I don’t feel it, I guess, but <em> God, </em>Cas — ” </p><p>Dean cuts himself off. Looks up. Cas’ eyes are wide and shocked and hopeful and it’s too much, Dean feels <em> too much </em> , everything gathered up inside his chest, aching, longing, fucking <em> praying. </em></p><p>And Dean thinks about that — about how the only time he ever prayed to God, <em> really </em> prayed to him, was when Cas died. How life without him was cold, empty, <em> pointless,</em> how Dean’s grief had been a vicious snake, choking and strangling him until it swallowed him whole in the form of a syringe to the heart. </p><p>And now Cas is back, and all Dean can think about — all he’s been able to think about since he picked up the phone and heard Cas' voice murmur <em> Dean </em> in his ear as the radio blasted, telling him <em> it’s never too late, it’s never too late </em> — is how badly he wants to kiss him, to wrap him in his arms and hold him, keep him warm and safe so that he never, ever leaves Dean again, how badly he wants to have dinner with him every night and go on long walks with him and fuck him until Dean’s name is the only goddamn word he remembers. </p><p>“I do,” Dean finishes. And it’s just two words — spoken so quietly, barely there — but there’s a world of meaning in them. </p><p>A world of meaning that Dean knows Cas understands, as he watches the angel’s expression melt into one pure vulnerability, watches as his mouth falls open and hears a very sharp, sudden intake of breath. </p><p>And it’s so fucking impossible, so fucking unbelievable, Dean thinks, that they’re having this conversation, that they’re finally <em> speaking </em> about it — that he’s watching as the invisible fences they’ve placed around this thing, reinforced by every <em> I love you; I love all of you </em> and <em> I need you, </em>fall to pieces right before his very eyes. </p><p>“Dean,” Cas says, and his voice is trembling in a way that Dean’s never heard before, that makes his heart race faster, faster. “What are you saying?” </p><p>That’s not what he really means when he asks that, Dean knows; the real question, underlying the shakily spoken words, is <em> Are we really doing this? </em></p><p><em> Yes, </em>Dean thinks, as he meets Cas' stare head-on, feeling a wave of pure affection and need and <em> love </em> wash over him as he takes in the angel who sits before him, shivering under the weight of Dean’s eyes in a way that’s all too human. <em> Yes, yes, </em>yes. </p><p>“Cas,” Dean says, meaningfully, and it’s more whisper than anything. He lets out a quiet little breath, a huff of something almost like exasperation. “You know.” </p><p>Cas eyes are starting to glisten, now, and <em> fuck </em> if that doesn’t make Dean feel something oh so unnamable, something deep and visceral, something that’s a culmination of nine years of repressing, of telling himself <em> no </em>over and over again. </p><p>And before he even really realizes he’s doing it, Dean is getting up and walking towards the bed, and Cas is looking up at him fearfully, hopefully, reverently. And then he’s reaching down and grasping one of Cas’ hands, and Dean pulls, and Cas let himself be pulled until he’s on his feet right in front of Dean, looking at him like he’s everything, like he’s <em> God, </em> and Dean wants to say — <em> no, Cas, you’ve got it backwards; you’re the one I pray to.  </em></p><p>He doesn’t say that. Instead, he takes a deep breath. Leans forward until his forehead rests against Cas’, listens to the angel’s trembling breaths. He whispers, once — “<em>Castiel,” </em>and Dean feels Cas' full-body shudder at his God-given name on Dean’s blasphemous lips. </p><p>He tilts his head, leans in, and presses his lips to Cas' left cheek. Turns his head. Does the same to his right. Cas is shaking, shivering, breathing erratically; Dean feels like he’s about to fall apart, feels warm and dizzy and too much, it’s all <em> so much.  </em></p><p>Dean lifts his head. Kisses Cas gently on the tip of his nose, and then on his forehead. He lingers there for a bit, just lets himself live in the moment. One of Cas' hands is still clasped in his own; the other rests on Cas' waist. But as he pulls back, he brings both of them up to rest on each side of Cas' face. </p><p>They lock eyes, holding each other’s gazes for a long, tense moment, and Dean realizes that they’ve reached the very edge of the precipice, finally. Sees the tears shining in Cas’ blue eyes and knows that the angel is about to take Dean by the hand and drag him over, to pull him down, down, down, to a place that neither of them will ever be able to go back from. </p><p>And then it’s Cas’ turn to say <em> his </em> name, breathing <em> Dean </em>like it’s the only word he ever cares to speak again, before he leans forward and kisses Dean’s lips. </p><p>And so they kiss and kiss, and Dean’s floating, goes to some place that’s entirely new and golden and perfect, fucking <em> perfect. </em> And every touch of Cas’ lips to his is like an answer to Dean’s many, many prayers, spoken in small town churches and his bedroom and underground prison cells over the years, saying <em> yes, I hear you </em> and <em> I miss you </em> and <em> I’m sorry </em> and <em> I forgive you </em> and <em> I love you, I love you, I love you.  </em></p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i hope you liked it!! find me on tumblr @deancasendgame</p></blockquote></div></div>
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